The Marketmaker

by Michael Ridpath

  ‘Nick! Nick …’ Isabel’s voice faded into darkness.

  8

  I had my own room in the hospital, and it was clean. Isabel had made sure of that. She had secured a well-qualified doctor who had pronounced that the knife wound, although deep, wasn’t dangerous. It had missed my heart, but nicked my lung. There had been some internal bleeding, but this had been minimized because the knife had not been withdrawn. The lung itself had not been badly damaged, and would heal quickly. He had stitched me up carefully, so the scarring would be minimal. Rio doctors were, apparently, experts with a needle and thread. I had woken up with a tube down my throat, which they soon took away, but my breathing was still painful. The doctor wanted to keep me in hospital for a couple of days to make sure no infection took hold, and to give me time to recover from the shock of the attack.

  I needed it. There was a steady, dull, persistent pain in my chest, but that wasn’t the problem. I felt weak and my brain was fuzzy. My body was telling me to lie still.

  Isabel was in and out all the time. I got the impression she was organizing everything in the background. A plain-clothes policeman came to see me. Isabel translated. She had obviously already given him all the information she could, and there was nothing I could add. She said that the police were particularly tough on locals who attacked foreigners: it was bad for the tourist trade. Someone would suffer for this crime. Whether it would necessarily be the kids who had committed it might never be known. The Rio police’s justice was arbitrary.

  Her father also came to see me. He said he felt guilty that this had happened to me in Rio, his city. It was comforting to know that Isabel and Luís were looking after me. The thought of dealing with the Rio police and medical system alone, wounded, and speaking no Portuguese, scared me.

  Ricardo called me on Sunday evening to wish me well. He said I was lucky to be in Isabel’s hands. I agreed with him.

  They let me out of hospital at lunch-time on Monday, on condition that I spent the afternoon at the hotel. I was beginning to feel much stronger. Isabel suggested I stay at the hotel on Tuesday and fly home that evening, but I asked her if I could join her at the Ministry of Finance. The deal was nearly finalized, and since I had come all this way, I wanted to see it through. Or so I told her. More than that, I had enjoyed having Isabel around, and I wanted to prolong the experience as long as possible.

  We were supposed to be meeting Humberto Alves at nine thirty on Tuesday morning, and we arrived ten minutes early. By eleven he still hadn’t seen us. Isabel was becoming agitated.

  ‘Half an hour late is OK. It’s normal. But an hour and a half? I don’t know. Something’s wrong.’

  And it was.

  Eventually Humberto called us into his office. He bade us sit down, and began to pace up and down. He fussed over me, which was fair enough, but he took much longer than necessary.

  ‘Humberto. What’s wrong?’ said Isabel in the end, in frustration.

  He ran his hand through the remnants of his hair, and glanced at Isabel nervously. ‘We’ve decided to appoint Bloomfield Weiss as lead-manager of the favela deal. We’ve asked them to invite you into the deal as a co-lead-manager, and they’ve agreed.’

  ‘You’ve what?’ shouted Isabel, leaping to her feet.

  Humberto edged round behind his desk, and glanced down at its sparkling top. ‘We’ve asked Bloomfield Weiss to lead-manage the deal.’

  Isabel shouted at him in a stream of Portuguese. He tried to answer, but it was no good. Eventually he sighed. He glanced at me. ‘OK,’ he said, in English. ‘You deserve an explanation.’

  Isabel perched on the very edge of Humberto’s small sofa, poised at any moment to leap off and go for his throat. Humberto sat uncomfortably opposite us.

  ‘Well?’ Isabel’s eyes were alight.

  ‘OK, I know this deal was your idea all along. And we had given you the mandate. We’ll reimburse all your expenses.’

  ‘I don’t care about the expenses, it’s the deal I want!’ cried Isabel.

  ‘I know. If it was up to me, I would have gone ahead with you.’

  ‘Don’t give me that bullshit. It was up to you!’

  Humberto winced. ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘So who has a problem with us? The Mayor? The Governor? We know them well. We’ve done a lot for them over the last few years.’

  ‘No, not them.’

  ‘Who then?’

  ‘The World Development Fund.’

  ‘Jack Langton?’ Isabel paused. This obviously made more sense to her. ‘What’s his problem?’ she said, in a quieter tone.

  Humberto relaxed a touch. ‘I don’t know. He said that if the World Development Fund were to guarantee the deal, then Dekker Ward couldn’t be the lead-manager.’

  ‘Why couldn’t we? Did he say?’

  Humberto shrugged. ‘He said it was policy. Something to do with the WDF’s global funding strategy. He says they are worried about the monopoly Dekker Ward has in leading bond issues in Latin America. They think it would be a good idea to have a choice of several sources of funds, and the best way of doing that is to insist on another lead-manager.’

  ‘But why Bloomfield Weiss?’

  ‘Apparently, they are the biggest lead-manager of the WDF’s global deals. And, besides, no one else was willing to take the deal from you. Which sort of underlines Jack Langton’s point, don’t you think?’

  ‘No, Humberto, I don’t think! No one else took the deal because it would be completely unethical to do so when we had done all the work. Bloomfield Weiss were the only firm dirty enough to try.’

  ‘Look, Isabel, I fought for you. I pushed hard. But Jack wouldn’t move. And you know we can’t possibly do this deal without the WDF guarantee.’

  Isabel stood up. ‘Humberto, I’m disappointed in you,’ she said, her voice quivering.

  ‘There’s one other thing Jack said that I didn’t understand,’ said Humberto.

  Isabel waited.

  ‘Apparently the WDF have information that Dekker Ward has a relationship with some of the narco-traffickers that control the favelas. That makes it difficult for them to use you, they say.’

  Isabel turned on her heel and stormed out of the room.

  I was a bit slow following her. I was just about to nod and smile at Humberto when I realized that this would be inappropriate, so I gave him a sort of stiff little bow instead, and rushed off to catch up with her.

  Our taxi fought its way back towards our hotel.

  ‘Bad news,’ I said.

  Isabel put her head in her hands. ‘Very bad news. I can’t believe it!’

  ‘But they did ask us to be co-lead-manager.’

  Isabel shook her head. ‘That’s an insult. We’d never go into a deal Bloomfield Weiss took from us. Ricardo will be furious. Once Bloomfield Weiss show the market they can steal a deal from under our noses, everyone will be doing it.’

  ‘Can we talk to the World Development Fund?’

  ‘There’s no point. Bloomfield Weiss will have more influence with them than we have.’ She stared glumly out of the window.

  ‘If I ask you something, will you promise not to kill me?’

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘I’ll promise no such thing.’ But she looked at me curiously.

  I went ahead anyway. ‘Aren’t they right? I mean, isn’t it better for the World Development Fund to have a choice of investment banks to lead their deals in Latin America?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t kill you,’ said Isabel, with a small smile. ‘Yes they’re absolutely right. And, in fact, I’m surprised this hasn’t happened before now. We couldn’t dominate this market for ever. Nevertheless this is a bad day for us. If only it had been anyone else but Bloomfield Weiss!’

  ‘There’s something else I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘What was that at the end about how Dekker deals with narco-traffickers in Rio?’

  Isabel snorted. ‘That’s rubbish. I know about all Dekker’s Brazilian business and, believe me, we don’t g
o anywhere near drug dealers.’

  I thought about Martin Beldecos’s fax and Francisco Aragão, who according to United Bank of Canada was a Brazilian money-launderer. But I decided not to contradict her just then.

  I joined Isabel in her room as she rang Ricardo. I had never seen her so tense. She explained what had happened, and answered some questions concisely. Then there were some monosyllabic yesses and nos, and she hung up. She sat on the chair by the desk in her room, and rubbed her face in her hands.

  ‘I take it he wasn’t pleased,’ I said.

  She looked up. ‘I’ve never heard him so angry.’

  ‘What’s he going to do?’

  She frowned. ‘He’s getting on a plane down here tonight. He’ll be in Rio tomorrow morning. He says he’ll sort everything out.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Not exactly a vote of confidence, is it?’ Isabel muttered. ‘But I can’t blame him.’

  ‘How can he sort this out?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. We’ll just have to see.’

  Isabel and I waited for Ricardo in the lobby. Isabel had checked whether his plane had landed on time. It had. We waited in silence, Isabel clearly nervous. I didn’t feel quite so bad – after all, I was so inexperienced that I could hardly be held to blame. But I felt for Isabel, and every now and then I gave her a smile of encouragement, which she seemed to be grateful for.

  It felt odd, sitting in this smart hotel, five thousand files from the School of Russian Studies, waiting for a bollocking. It was cool in the lobby, and it was the cool that made it feel exclusive. Outside it was hot, sticky and noisy. Outside was where ordinary tourists and ordinary cariocas fought their way through the fumes, noise and heat of the city. Outside was also where people were attacked with knives. Inside was where the people with money sat, safe and dry in their suits in the cool.

  A car drew up, and the tall slim figure of Ricardo stepped out. He didn’t look at all as if he had spent the night on a plane. His tie was neatly knotted over a crisp white shirt, and his suit looked as if it was on its first day out from the tailor’s. A doorman brought in his two cases, a small overnight bag and a large briefcase.

  Isabel and I stood up nervously.

  Ricardo saw us and smiled. ‘How are you, Nick?’

  ‘OK. A bit sore. A bit shaken.’

  ‘I bet. You were very lucky, I hear.’

  ‘Yes, I was. Although it was bad luck to be attacked in the first place.’

  Ricardo shook his head. ‘First, Martin in Caracas, and now you here. Travel really is getting dangerous, these days.’ Then he moved over to the reception desk. ‘Just wait here a minute while I check in,’ he said. We did as we were told.

  He spent a moment filling in forms, and then he returned. ‘Let’s get a cup of coffee, shall we?’

  Breakfast was almost over, but they let us have a table with some coffee. Ricardo took his jacket off, sat back in his chair and sighed. He closed his eyes and stretched. Then he leaned forward and looked Isabel in the eye.

  ‘OK. First thing. I want you to know that I was very impressed with your work on the Favela Bairro deal. It’s just the sort of creative work that we want to do at Dekker.’

  ‘Thank you,’ whispered Isabel, surprised and relieved.

  ‘We’ve lost the deal because of those arseholes at the World Development Fund. I don’t know if there’s anything you could have done to prevent that. In any case, it’s too late to worry about it now. But I do not like the way Bloomfield Weiss stole the deal from us. They have to know that I, personally, will not let them get away with it.’

  Isabel and I both nodded. Whatever you say, Ricardo.

  He looked at his watch. ‘Let’s see, it’s ten o’clock now. I’ve arranged a meeting with Oswaldo Bocci at ten forty-five. That just gives us time to finish our coffee.’

  Oswaldo Bocci’s office was on the top floor of a cylindrical glass building with the words TV GoGo emblazoned over the entrance. It had one of those great Rio views that I was beginning to get used to, this one was of Guanabara Bay peeking out behind other prestigious offices. The chairs were light blue leather, and abstract art adorned the walls in a profusion of tropical colour. A few Indian artifacts dotted the large room, many of them figurines with pendulous breasts or prominent genitalia. They were all pretentiously displayed and labelled.

  Bocci himself was a powerfully built fifty-year-old with jet black hair and a forceful chin. He wore an open-necked silk shirt, which stretched tight over his well-defined torso. Gold glittered from his hands, his neck and his left ear. The scent of his aftershave clashed with the fragrance of the exotic flowers in a tall vase by his desk.

  Ricardo had told me about Bocci in the taxi. Apparently he was one of a number of Brazilian media entrepreneurs who wanted to challenge Roberto Marinho’s Globo empire for dominance of the hearts and minds of the people. So far he had successful papers in Rio and Minas Gerais, and he had launched a TV station from scratch in the Rio area that was ahead of plan. He had done all this with money provided by Dekker.

  He was pleased to see Ricardo, was polite to me, and leered at Isabel. She ignored him vaguely.

  After a quick discussion of Flamengo’s chances of winning the state soccer championship, Ricardo came to the point. ‘We need your help, Oswaldo.’

  Bocci’s eyes lit up, and he smiled. It wasn’t a generous smile: he scented a trade of favours, a deal. ‘Anything I can do for you, my friend.’

  ‘You’ve heard about this Favela Bairro project?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘And what do you think of it?’

  ‘I’d say it’s boring. I think we are against it, but I forget why. Wasting taxpayers’ money, adding to imprudent borrowing, that kind of thing.’

  ‘I have some interesting information about the deal.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. The Finance Secretary has been in discussions with the local drug gangs that control the favelas. Most of the money will end up going to them although, of course, Humberto Alves will get some. A scandal, don’t you think?’

  Bocci rubbed his large chin. ‘Maybe. I don’t know. Where’s the evidence?’

  ‘Oh, you know. Anonymous sources in banking circles.’

  ‘So you knew about this?’

  ‘We discovered it,’ said Ricardo. ‘And so we pulled out of the deal. We left it to another house who were prepared to turn a blind eye.’

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Bloomfield Weiss, the American investment bank.’ Ricardo paused, watching the other man. ‘So, what do you think?’

  ‘It’s a scandal, sure. But it’s not a really big scandal. And there’s no hard evidence. I don’t know.’

  ‘OK, I understand,’ said Ricardo. He pulled out a cigarette, and offered one to Bocci who took it. They both lit up. ‘So, how’s business?’

  Bocci blew some smoke to the ceiling and smiled. ‘Great, great. TV GoGo’s doing very well. The format is really working – popular commercial TV for the people. Viewers understand that. And so do advertisers. After twelve months we’re way ahead of the figures we gave you in our forecast.’

  Ricardo smiled. ‘I know, I’ve seen the numbers. It’s always nice to see people exceeding their projections. It doesn’t happen very often, I can tell you.’ He took a thoughtful drag on his cigarette. ‘Tell me, do you think this format would work in, say, São Paulo?’

  Bocci’s eyes locked on him. Ricardo held them, unblinking.

  ‘I’m sure it would. Of course, we’d need the finance.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Fifty million dollars.’

  Ricardo nodded. ‘I’m sure we could raise that for you. You’ll need some time, of course, to draw up detailed plans. But give Isabel a call when you’re ready, and we’ll sort something out.’

  ‘I’d need to be sure we could raise the finance. Don’t you have to talk to investors and so on?’

  Ricardo waved his arm dismissively. ‘Oh, of course we’ll
have to do all that eventually. But I’m certain I can get you the money, Oswaldo. And my word is better than any piece of paper. You know that.’

  Bocci smiled broadly. ‘Good.’

  ‘Now,’ said Ricardo, ‘have you decided what editorial line to take on this favela business?’

  So, it was all settled. The favela deal was destroyed. Bloomfield Weiss had learned their lesson: you don’t steal a deal from Dekker and get away with it. With our mission accomplished we could all go home now.

  I was seething. I couldn’t believe what Ricardo had just done. I could see Isabel was angry too. But she couldn’t exactly say anything: if she hadn’t let Bloomfield Weiss win the favela deal it would still be alive. Ricardo must have been aware of the way his two colleagues felt, but he seemed to take no notice.

  We left Bocci’s office, picked up our bags from the hotel, and made our way to the airport in painful silence. We were, of course, in first class. Ricardo checked us in. I was dismayed to see I was sitting next to him. Isabel was in the aisle opposite.

  Dinner on the plane passed in silence. Ricardo read through a stack of papers. He had one of those extra-large briefcases that lawyers often use. A standard-sized briefcase wouldn’t give him enough fuel for a two-day business trip. I stared out of the window at the black sky. I realized that Ricardo hadn’t even spent one night in Brazil. It had only taken him an hour to finish off what Isabel and Humberto had taken a year to create.

  After the attendant had cleared away my dinner, I eased my chair back and pretended to go to sleep. It was difficult: my chest was sore, and I could hear the gentle rustle of documents and the insistent scratch of pen on paper next to me.